


Lygerastia

by hitchhikingbabeh



Category: K-pop, SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:37:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hitchhikingbabeh/pseuds/hitchhikingbabeh
Summary: Danger flocks to you almost adoringly.





	1. Lygerastia

_**Eros - Philia - Ludus - Agape - Pragma - Philautia** _

This city is buzzing with life. It’s equal parts beauty, excitement and danger all around. The days are long and terribly hot, but nights are cool. The sunsets are ridiculous, intoxicating in their wild display of colour, and it dazzles you to no end to catch the shades of orange and pink fade to lilacs until deep violet overtakes the whole of the sky and specs of white, never ending explosions happening light years away, accessorise it to bathe it in envious beauty. 

Moving to a new place has always sounded exciting to you, and you’d done it plenty. Your family agrees that you’re smitten by change, that you flock to it like moths to a flame, which is why they’ve known better than to hold you back from letting your wanderlust run free. They coat their words with venom, say that you have no regard for anyone, really, but yourself. It doesn’t affect you to hear them say that, though it hurts somewhat that they think that you don’t care about them (well, they’d say you don’t care about people in general). 

The truth of the matter is, though, you hate being alone. You love spending time with yourself, but that is a far cry from being alone. So you’re grateful that at least this time around, you didn’t move to a new place on your own.

* * *

“Key, you’ve been  _hours_ ,” you groan from your living room. You’ve all but sunk into the leather couch, and the little black peplum dress you’re wearing is slightly hiking up your thighs. You stomp your heeled feet on the hardwood flooring, sure your flatmate can hear you, and let out another groan. 

Kim Kibum is, in short, a godsent creature. You met on the very day you arrived here, stumbled upon each other at baggage claim at the airport, and discovered that you were both essentially here after the same thing: change. He’d moved here on the same pretense that you had, looking to make entirely new people of yourselves, have entirely new experiences while you were still in your twenties.

The only difference was that, unlike him, you’d come here with a plan.

You had appointments to see apartments the very day after your arrival, had already made yourself an online cart at the IKEA website with all of your furniture picked out and had already leased yourself a car. Kibum, however, had halted all plans beyond actually getting to his destination. So naturally, because you think of yourself as being a half decent person (or maybe because he’s is both hilariously attractive and endearing), you decided to lend a helping hand. 

And thank heavens you did. 

After spending just a few hours with him, you kind of fell in love with the kind of person he is. Cynical, adventurous, passionate, but also serene, emotional and inexplicably clueless. You’d never met anyone like him. So in the same span of time, your whole plan changes, and it makes your whole body flutter. You arrange to see two-bedrooms instead of singles, make him a separate furniture cart and split the car leasing costs because he isn’t too comfortable with driving (but you love it, so you don’t mind taking him around till he’s confident enough to get himself a vehicle). Fate makes it easy and gives you the same exact budget, and it’s almost effortless how you weave your lives together. 

It’s been half a year since that day, and Key’s only threatened you with moving back to his home city twice.

“I’m almost done!” he yells from his bedroom, but you know for sure that he’s not. 

As you started waking up to each other’s faces every morning, you’ve come to know many things about Kim Kibum. The most shocking thing to find out was he cares about his looks more than anyone you’ve ever met. And that’s a pretty high feat because you’re the kind of person to wake up three hours early to get your hair, makeup and outfit done when you have early morning engagements. Kibum says that his face is his greatest asset, and that he has to keep it on par with his body (a dancer body at that, Key’s basically the prettiest person you’ve met), so where you take three hours, he’ll take five. 

To your great surprise, you hear his bedroom door open and close about two minutes later, and smile to yourself as you hear his footsteps near you. 

“Ready,” he declares, stepping into the living room just as you stand to get a good look at him. 

“Damn,” is all you have to say to his black slacks, black dress jacket and his white dress shirt. It’s a simple set-up, but as he always does, Key has managed to make himself look like a runway model, first few buttons of the shirt undone to expose his collarbones, jet black hair flawlessly styled to one side, face faultlessly clear. 

Sometimes you hate him for his good looks, but you know that you’re not too far away from him in that area. 

His bow shaped lips (enviable to say the least, which is why you try not to focus on them much) draw a smirk at the look you’re giving him, and one of his eyebrows, the one with a childhood scar on the very tip, raises suggestively at you. 

“Damn yourself,” he responds, referring to your eye makeup, and the searing red that colours your lips which he’s always had a thing for. The dress is one he’s seen you in before, and he likes how it makes your legs look, smooth and lean and aptly muscled, but he decides to omit a comment about that before you start complaining about not being as pretty as him. 

Key could call you his guiding light. You pretty much have been, for the past six months. He’s never been someone that draws out plans of action (he claims it’s because he has the mind of an artist - he prefers to look at life like a blank canvas, and he holds brushes that draw strokes, decisions, experiences and memories, that will eventually make up all of him), and he’s embarrassingly reliant on others for the smaller brush strokes in life (his excuse is that he’s an only child, but really it’s because he’s spoiled as hell and always has been). 

He almost didn’t approach you that morning at baggage claim, but he was too curious about how put together yet reckless you looked, so he decided to ask you if you knew where he could find a map of the city and it changed everything. 

All of a sudden he decided that it was time for a bigger canvas and for brush strokes from a different pair of hands, and he was suddenly enthralled with the thought that this would kickstart more changes, bigger canvases and more sets of hands. You thought he had guts of fucking steel but a heart of gold, and the rest of him looked feline and sharp, too alluring to resist. 

Neither of you had really had friends that you could call best friends, never had other people your age that you were basically attached at the hip to, and you soon enough came to realise that it was meant to be the two of you. Sure, maybe a couple decades too late and too many countries apart, but you eventually found each other and decided that this could only be as effortless as it was and still is because you were just fated to meet. 

It’s a rather romantic notion, but you didn’t hate Key for being a diva about everything or for keeping an absolute mess in his room, just like he didn’t hate you for never doing the dishes and leaving laundry to the last possible second or even for shutting yourself up in your room for days without contact with another human. In fact, you both didn’t hate each other so much that it got increasingly difficult to stay just friends. It’s still at the point where you can hardly keep your hands off of each other, but it’s not always smooth sailing. Arguments come around, fights about both parties contemplating the thought of seeing other people, and very recently you’ve come to the conclusion that you are mature enough to be friends with a side of benefits. This changed absolutely nothing about your friendship (except you now know that he has a thing for light bondage and blindfolding and he knows that you have a thing for doing things in public) except perhaps help it root deeper. 

He even crashes your bed some nights just for cuddles because you developed a soft spot for the more innocent shades of him, and if his occasional morning wood and your morning breath haven’t made things awkward, you’re sure as hell nothing will. 

It kind of scares you, to live with someone who got to know you so well so fast, but it makes it all the more exciting. So when he stretches out his arm for you to take and offers to hold your clutch, you’re only too happy to oblige him before turning off all the lights and walking out the front door.

* * *

You actually really enjoy clubbing. You don’t do it very often, but you’ve been cooped up in your bedroom for days, writing (or attempting to write) some more pages of the novel you’ve been working on for years (which is your baby and you don’t think you’ll ever show another soul, let alone publish), and you’ve been itching for human interaction with someone other than Key, in the highest concentration possible. 

This joint is your favorite, despite its misleading name.  _Eros_  is new-ish, and most people walking down its street might think it’s a whorehouse of some sort. But you were glad to discover that this particular place takes after the actual meaning of the word, not the skimpier denotation that its gained with time. Sure, you could associate this place with sex, what with the heavy bass and the sultry beats that are blasted through the speakers and the pairs (triples, sometimes) of people with hips glued to one another on the dancefloor, but it screams of passion everywhere, shades of red and black covering every inch of the room, and it has an element of danger to it, there’s an air of something darker in the atmosphere. It is also very well secured, manned by guys and girls that could swing you over their shoulders if you give even the ghost of a sign of bad intentions. 

All of these things and maybe the fact that you’ve never seen staff as attractive in any other nightclub have given this place surprising popularity among people between the ages of twenty and thirty five looking for a good drink and music that you could easily dance to and just as easily lounge to.   

Kibum is inclined to the latter tonight, while you opt for dancing. You never thought you were a great dancer, but you’re not half bad at it. You have complete dominion of the basics, and maybe your dress and makeup have given you the extra confidence to move quite decently. Whoever the DJ is tonight deserves a medal and a great blowjob because he is killing it, and you’re reminded of how much you love being in dark, smokey places with every track he mixes into his genius concoction of sound. Your eyes are shut closed and you don’t mind standing around too many people holding up drinks and grinding on each other, you just really enjoy moving, listening and the thickness in the air. If you want to see a familiar face you only need to look directly to your front, where you know that Kibum is sitting at the bar, scoping out the crowd and enjoying his first drink. You think you might join in just as you feel a pair of hands settle on your hips. 

Ah,  _this_  is the bit you don’t like about clubbing. 

“Come here often?” those are your three least favorite words to hear because it tells you everything you need to know about the person currently attempting to roll his hips against yours. You open your eyes and find that Key is already alert, looking directly at you for a sign that would let him know if he needs to intervene. You raise your palm, silently stating you can handle it, and take two steps away from the stranger behind you. 

He grabs you by the hips again and turns you around this time, and you only sigh in preparation for your next move. He’s not totally unattractive, but it’s obvious he’s had too many drinks and there is definitely a ring in the hand he brings up to cup your face. You put both of your hands on his chest and promptly push him off of you, which makes him stumble back rather pathetically. But he smiles and comes back. 

“What, are you too good for me?” you can’t hear him but you can read his lips, and the passive look on your face must be making him angry because his face is reddening and there is sweat beading on the crown of his head. He tries to grab you again, this time by the waist for a more secure grip, but you push him off again and clearly, loudly voice your disapproval. 

“Please don’t touch me,” you say very calmly, and everyone in your immediate vicinity can definitely hear, yet the man tries for your arm again. You kick your knee up when he’s invaded your personal space again, and he only has time to slouch and hold on to the crotch of his light wash jeans before a pale hand comes in and grabs him by the collar, easily pulling him away from you like a rag doll. 

The hand belongs to the most pristine creature you’ve ever laid eyes on. A gorgeous head of bright, blonde hair parted to the side, thick, darker eyebrows, an enchanting pair of almond-shaped brown eyes with impossibly plush, impossibly pink lips. He’s wearing an all black suit and looks like he walked straight out of a Vogue photoshoot and all but tosses the married man at a pair of bulky guys you recognise to be part of security. 

“Are you alright?" 

Unfair. The sound of his voice is fucking unfair and it doesn’t help that he’s so close because it goes straight through your ears like honey and it’s as smooth as velvet and maybe you simper because damn. You remember yourself in time, though, because you’re not nineteen and know to tell yourself not to blush or say something embarrassing,  but your smirk stays. 

"Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you respond. This is when someone would usually smile as if silently commending you, but his expression remains almost calculatedly flat. 

“I’m sorry you had to deal with him. Have a drink, it’ll be on the house,” he goes on, with his lips still in a straight line, but your smile widens and turns a bit more suggestive. It bugs you that you’re not getting a reaction from him (not because you’re conceited enough to think that he has to find you attractive, but because you actually do expect him to at least let one of the corners of his mouth perk up). 

“Thank you,” is your answer, and he gives you a curt nod before turning to leave. 

But he’s not getting off that easily.

You grab him by the arm as he steps away (and he just has to have rock solid biceps), and he turns around to face you in seconds. 

“Who are you?”

His eyes narrow, and he’s looking at you like you’re as delicate (and maybe as beautiful) as a rose petal, but he finally grins. Genuinely, like he’s too glad you’ve asked. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?

Bloody sinful. Maybe you hate that you love that he’s altogether vague.   
His reply makes you chuckle, satisfied, and you drop your hand from his arm and because yes, you would like to know. But he makes you so curious you’re willing to give chase, so you watch him walk away.


	2. Part 2

Fruity drinks are the undoing of every functional human. It’s all tricky concoctions, potions filled with baseless confidence and feather-light thoughts that suggest more, of everything. More sips, more music, and louder, more dancing, more touch, more friction. You’re not a huge fan of yourself under the influence of these sugar loaded weapons, but the taste is so sweet going down your throat, so temptingly misleading and so difficult to resist. The thought of clouding your mind, your mind which is constantly cluttered with words and ideas and memories too concrete and too heavy, focusing on too many things at once, is too appealing. 

So when Eros’ bartender, a cheeky pretty boy by the name of Taemin, pushes his latest creation in your direction, you only grin. The pink-ish liquid looks harmless, poured from a small french press Taemin had been mixing the liquors in under the bar. He claims that it’s harmless, too, says that it’s rum and some of its stronger cousins pressed with fresh strawberries and lemon slices, and urges you to try. 

“You know you’re my favorite regular,” he says in that sultry voice of his, biting the corner of his lower lip because he knows that it always distracts you from the voice in your head that always advises you against this sort of thing. 

“I wouldn’t make you try this if I didn’t know for sure that it was that good,” he even pours himself a glass and keeps it under the bar and out of sight from his supervisors.

Lee Taemin is an interesting character. You introduced yourself to him officially on your third or fourth spin around this club, because his hands have an incredible talent for making the kinds of drinks that wouldn’t let you know you’re fucked up until you found yourself giving in to all of your innermost desires, and because he is probably the only person you’ve seen that might be prettier than Kibum. He has delicate features, much like your flatmate, but he also has a delicate build while Key has big bones and broad shoulders. His skin is fair and clear, not a freckle or blemish anywhere in sight, and his face is a smooth blend of sharp angles and softer details. You’ve always been intrigued by the stark difference between the roughness of the corners of his eyes or the sharpness of his jaw and the softer shape of his supple lips and the shape of his nose. In short, he looks ethereal, and it makes very little sense to you, which is why you always entertain his conversations, weave yourself into his pretty words and playful looks and lose your train of thought whenever he runs his hands through his dark hair. 

He also manages to always get a rise out of Kibum because of all of this, which might add to your amusement. Kibum is not a jealous person, but he is territorial, which is why his hands are joined behind your back and why he’s openly pulling your standing self against his seated one so that only the pink drink, which you’ve finally taken from the bartender, separates you. Kibum is still working on his whisky sour, so you raise your glass in Taemin’s direction and toast to whatever the fuck happens next before you take a careful sip of the drink. 

Your expression turns from expectant to pleasantly surprised instantly, and you shoot Taemin an impressed smile and a thumbs up. Key lets curiosity get the better of him and he nudges you slightly, and without saying a word, you put the glass at level with his mouth and bring the two small straws on the rocks glass to his lips. He looks up at you as he takes a gulp or two before releasing the sticks and all but beams. The sight is so cute that you can’t help but let your hand go around the back of his neck, caressing his soft hair with a small, careful smile.

“So, are you guys finally dating?”

“Are you jealous?” you raise an eyebrow at Taemin and his nerve, but the boy only chuckles. 

“Are you exclusive?”

Your smirk widens, but you decide to look away from his clever eyes and lick the corner of your mouth to avoid a guilty smile from forming. Taemin knows that that’s a no in your body language, so he shoots you a wink and pours another glass of the drink (which remains nameless despite its genius) for Kibum. 

“Thanks to that creepy dude from earlier, all of your drinks are on the house tonight, so just wave me over when you want a refill,” Taemin calls out before swaying away to tend to other customers.

When you turn to look back into Kibum’s dark eyes, he looks a little flustered. You’re sure it’s because you gave a very meek answer regarding the nature of your relationship, but you know that now is not the time or place to discuss it. So you make him take the final two or three sips of his whisky sour, pass him the pink dreamy stuff and make him get up. 

“I want to dance,” you say, and he lets you take his hand and pull him away because the song that the DJ just started to mix is really fucking good anyway. 

Kibum loves to watch you dance. He spent half of the life he had before he met you in dance studios and rehearsals and at presentations in venues the size of his bedroom and as grand as concert halls, and in all of that time, he’d never seen anyone that moved as captivatingly as you are moving right now. It’s like the air around you thickens by several measures, time itself seems so slow down when your hips sway. What really kills him is the look in your eye, glazed over for no reason other than the fact that you’re so glad to be here, sharing body heat with dozens of strangers like they’re a source of energy that fuels you, makes you move in waves in every direction. Whatever you said or didn’t say to Taemin before is completely forgotten, and once again, like it always seems to happen when he lets himself look at you and really look, he’s mesmerized. He can’t help but feel deep admiration for you, a kind of love he’s too reluctant to give to anyone outside of his immediate family, mixed with something more. Something more that he tries not to think about too often lest he loses himself completely to the irresistible puzzle you are.

When Kibum dances, it’s second nature. It makes you laugh to see how quickly he goes from brooding prince to master of pointed, precise movement, and you’re only too glad to feel his arm go around your hips and the warmth of his chest against your back. This song is really good, but your partner is what really makes your heart beat a little bit faster. You’re glad you’re in the thick of the dance floor, where the music is loudest and inhibitions are frailest, because you like to feel constrained, restricted to only the sound of the sensuous beats coming from the loudspeakers and the feel of Kibum’s skin. You let your head fall back and it lands squarely on Kibum’s shoulder, and he nuzzles into your skin until his breath is hitting your collarbones. It makes you smile, and you turn your head slightly to press a single kiss against the curve of his jaw. 

You’ll hopefully never have to go clubbing with anyone else in your life, because Kim Kibum is perfect in this setting, in every setting. When he’s wearing a suit or cotton shorts or sweatpants or even a skirt (nasty round of truth or dare Kibum refuses to ever discuss), when he’s laughing and when he’s angry and when he’s sad; he’s perfect. Right now, with strobe lights hitting his skin like soft caresses and with a very thin layer of sweat coating his face and sticking some of his hair on his forehead, lips parted and eyes closed as if absorbing everything around him, he looks pristine. You wish you could call Kim Kibum yours. 

The dancefloor has you both as its center pieces for a while. You both finish your first round of the dreamy drinks, and before long you see Taemin glide around you with a tray in his hands, a tray filled with the sparkling pink liquid. You don’t have too long to ponder on who’s manning the bar if he’s out here frolicking before he hands you and Kibum your next round, claiming that these are twice as strong and guaranteed to fuck you up. 

“You’re welcome!” are his final words before he dances away (and you’re certain he too has some kind of background in dancing because he looks like he’s floating as he moves, with impossible grace and airiness), and he pointedly winks at the both of you as he makes his exit to entertain others, probably more of the regulars that he’s fond of. 

You both sip your drinks, shamelessly staring each other straight in the eye and smirking. You know full well that the other is thinking up their next move, the next endeavor to entertain, but a new song fades through the sound system and you both beam as you recognize it. Others around you have the same reaction, and your affair of two becomes an affair for six, ten more people that join in to a less synchronized session of jumping, swaying and popping and locking and when you look up at Kibum again he’s laughing. You let yourself laugh as well because you both flourish when surrounded by people looking to have as good of a time as you are. More dancing, more drinking, Taemin comes around yet again and you wonder if he ever gets yelled at for leaving the bar unattended (and he probably does, he probably gets yelled at all the time for all manner of things) with shots in his tray, which he claims a gentleman from the bar personally ordered for you. Kibum’s eyes narrow at the revelation immediately and he pulls you against his chest. 

“No need to get all defensive, he sent it for the both of you. Said that you should go on dancing competitions or some drunk bullshit like that,” Taemin clarifies, but Kibum does not let up on his grip. 

You let your hand rest atop his and stroke the back of it affectionately because Kibum really has nothing to worry about. There are only about three people in the whole world that could actually divert your attention from his enchanting aura. 

One of which is currently staring you down from the upper level of the club.   
You’ve never been to the upper level of Eros, simply because it’s too far from the loudness and the chaos (and also the bar) for your liking. It’s not a full level, really, it’s more of an indoor balcony that overlooks the grandness of the main floor. It’s the place that gets you the nearest to the DJ booth, and it’s where couples like to go and find darker corners to steal kisses or exchange pretty lies over too much physical contact. It is also, as Taemin had informed you another night, the level that leads to the business side of the establishment, the administrative offices. Which is probably why the spectacular looking blonde from before, the one that attempted to gain the title of knight in shining armor, is resting his elbows against the railing that borders the whole level and staring down at you with that signature stony expression that both fits and doesn’t fit him. You stare right back at him, trying to scavenge a reason for him to be looking at you like that and coming up with none, so when Taemin hands you a shot glass filled with liquid a similar color to your previous drinks, you lift it in his direction. A silent cheers that makes his face shift only for a moment when he gives you a nod of acknowledgement and takes a sip of his own drink. You kick your head back and let the liquid cascade past your lips. When you pull your head back up you realize that you’re already a bit dizzy, and Kibum chuckles at your expression and pulls you close to him again. 

Your eyes dart back to the stranger once more, and you’re almost disappointed to find that he’s vanished, and you shrug just as Kibum leans into your ear to ask what you’ve been looking at. You wave it off because your full attention has fallen back on him, and you put your arms around his neck and pull him close to you. 

“Do you want to head back?” he says in your ear as his hands land on your hips. You hum right back and nod, and he chuckles before you both straighten up and head towards the exit. 

The night is refreshing, and you find yourself sobering up just a tad as you breathe in the crisp, cool air. Your fingers and toes are numb and your head is slightly swimming, but somehow the sensation is still at the point where you’re delighted with everything around you. Kibum holds your hand securely as you both stand on the sidewalk directly outside the nightclub, and you lean against the cool concrete wall as Kibum calls for a cab. 

“It’ll be here in five minutes,” he declares, locking and pocketing his phone a second later. You nod in response and rub your hands against your arms, suddenly regretting not bringing a jacket. He doesn’t miss it, naturally. 

“Are you cold?” he asks immediately after, his hands joining yours to attempt to warm you up. He then starts to shimmy out of his dress jacket, and he holds it up in front of you with a smirk on his face. 

You grin instantly. 

“I’ll trade you my jacket,” he starts, “for a kiss.”

This kind of shit should not work on you but damn it all there is something about him that just makes greasy lines like these really effective and you’re not even embarrassed about giving in because it’s not two seconds before you pull him by the collar of his shirt and bring your lips together. He’s smiling against you like he didn’t expect you to concede without at least one of your smartass comments, and quickly takes advantage of the fact that you’ve separated your back from the concrete to place his jacket over your shoulders. Your hands are still grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, and it makes his smile widen as he presses you flat against the wall behind you and lets his tongue tease your lower lip, inviting you for a different kind of dance. 

Everything about Kibum is addictive, his scent, the feel of his skin and the taste of his lips, so it takes you no time to reciprocate the truss either, and you let out a small moan when he moves one of his legs between yours and his fingers start tracing circles against your hip bones. You really wish you could teleport back to your apartment this second because there are dozens of people around you but Kibum’s enjoying this far too much to give you any time to second guess this very public display of affection. He even goes as far as nipping at your lower lip, which makes you pull a little bit harder on his shirt because he’s far too good at this to let go. 

You almost forget about the other people.  _Almost_ , because soon enough you hear wolf-whistling, which makes you both remember yourselves. You don’t open your eyes, though, just settle for putting just a few centimetres of distance between your faces so that his nose is still brushing against the bridge of yours and he can still press butterfly kisses against your lips. “Yeah, get some!” resounds throughout the sidewalk and you don’t think you’ve ever had murderous intentions against Taemin except right at this moment, but you open your eyes a fraction settle for flipping him the bird before wrapping your arms around Kibum’s shoulders and kiss him like you really mean it. And you do.

If the cab driver hadn’t called Kibum to say that he’d been waiting at the nearest intersection for five minutes, you’d have never left that sidewalk. The inside of the car is surprisingly colder than the outside air, and you slip your arms through the sleeves of Key’s jacket for extra warmth. When you look into your flatmate’s eyes, you see that they are still glazed over, and you smirk and wonder what his next move might be. 

There’s definitely a lot of tension between the two of you, and the cab driver can sense it because he’s hurriedly asking if you’d like him to boost the air con or roll down the windows or play some music, or even if you want mints or gum. Kibum says no to all of those things, but does request the cab driver to turn the music up as far as it goes, and you’re pleasantly surprised to discover that the driver is laid back enough to fully comply, saying that he actually loves this song and that he has a full playlist by the artist. Kibum is too charming to resist, you know this all too well, so you only grin as he makes a short conversation about how he loves this artist too and that he’d like to listen to the entire playlist at full volume. 

That is how you end up snogging in the back of a taxi with Korean trot blasting as your background music. 

Kibum later confesses that he only requested that to save the driver from having to hear him bite marks into the bridge of your neck or hear you hum and him groan with absolute elation, but in the moment you couldn’t give less of a shit about what anyone besides Kibum might be seeing, hearing or feeling. You give each other a few seconds every once in a while to recover air, and every time you do you both end up bursting out with laughter because the music is ill-fitting but too hilarious to trade for anything else. 

Then again, that is most of your relationship with Kibum. There is always laughter when the two of you are alone in your little bubble of playful kisses and wicked smirks, and it’s probably why it’s so hard to not give into each other. 

If there is such a thing as soul mates, you’re pretty sure Kim Kibum is yours.


	3. Part 3

**WARNING: MATURE CONTENT**

The cab driver is only slightly flushed when you step out of his car and wish him a safe rest of the night, and Kibum chuckles as he takes your hand and walks the both of you to your apartment building’s lobby.

“Did you have fun?” He asks as you ride the elevator to the ninth floor, and you meet his sincere eyes with an equally sincere smile. 

“I always have fun with you,” your answer makes his ears pink and you giggle before moving over to kiss his cheek. 

“My favourite bit was the cab ride back,” Kibum’s eyes narrow slightly and you laugh and pull at his hand. 

“You’re shameless,” you’re shaking your head as you both step out of the lift and head to your front door. Kibum sticks his tongue out at you and you’re tempted to kiss him again, but you focus on turning your key on the door lock and letting the both of you in.

Kibum sighs at the familiar scent of home, a mixture of the mahogany that adorns some of your furniture with that cleaner you use for your hardwood floors and a hint, just a hint of your perfume. He tries to measure just how drunk he is as he shuts his eyes and considers if he should pass out yet when suddenly he finds himself pressed against the front door.

You’ve kicked your heels off and your feet are too grateful for how cool the floors are, and you breathe out a sigh of absolute relief as you place your hands on Kibum’s chest and reach up to catch his lips. His eyes flutter closed and he grins against your mouth, letting his arms roam your lower back until he can press you against him and you can feel the growing excitement in his slacks. His grip falters slightly when you moan into his mouth because the sound reverberates too beautifully inside him and makes him forget himself just for a moment. 

You start to unbutton his shirt and he gives way for you to do so, and even though he loves the height difference between the two of you it’s making his neck hurt slightly, so the moment the shirt is undone, he moves his hands under your knees and easily hooks your legs over his hips, all the while licking and kissing and nibbling on every inch of skin his lips can reach. He only breaks away when you bite his lip only half playfully and draw a deep groan from the depths of his chest.

“Yours or mine?”

“Mine.”

The door of your bedroom bangs loudly when Kibum kicks it open, and you smile at his eagerness because you really enjoy getting him worked up like this. You both fall onto your bed and he makes it so you’re straddling him as his fingers roam the back of your dress in search of its zipper. You move your hips against him and he moans a bit louder, giving up his attempt to do this right and just grabbing the hem of your dress before pulling it over your head.  His impatience makes you both laugh, and you bite your lip when he looks up from your black lace lingerie set. 

“Hm, better,” he smiles and presses kisses and bites all the way from smooth skin between your breasts up to your collarbones before he assaults your neck like he did in the cab, and you move to unbutton and unzip his belt and slacks to stop yourself from letting out the ungodly noises creeping up your throat, but not before you stick your hand in one of his back pockets and pull out his wallet. You manage to pick out a condom and toss the leather Cartier rather quickly, and Kibum takes you by the waist and flips you both over. You push his pants down with your feet and smile when you hear the metal of the belt buckle hit the ground.

For the next thirty seconds you only look at him. He’s really stunning in the bluish light that seeps in through the window (and you were never grateful for the lamppost directly outside your window until this very moment), his hair beautifully disarranged and his chest rising and falling unevenly, his white shirt pushed back to his elbows and his eyes sharp yet gentle, always gentle for you. The way he’s looking at you has to be illegal because suddenly you feel like the rarest of gemstones and you almost want to look away but you wouldn’t dare take your eyes off of Kim Kibum for a second.

He feels so pathetically happy under this gaze, your gaze, that he’s afraid he might burst. No matter how much he loves seeing lust swim in your irises or how much he enjoys your fingers against his skin, he loves you the most when you look at him like this. Like he’s the only thing that ever mattered to you, and he’s so tempted to believe that he is. He can’t believe that you would make him feel so happy, so ridiculously content with every aspect of his life the way you do every morning when he sees your face. What you feel for each other is so high above anything either of you have known before that it may just be why it’s so hard to call it one thing. But you’re both too coy to say anything about how stupidly amazing you make each other feel, so he winks at you and you smirk back to reinstate that at least right now, he’s yours and that you’re his and that’s really all that matters.

You lift your legs and wrap them around his lower back and dig the balls of your feet into it to bring him close to you again. He steadies himself with his hands, now on either side of your waist, and his face hovers mere centimetres over yours. You run your hands up his back and they settle on the nape of his neck just for a moment, just until he’s kissing you again, and then you grab fistfuls of his gorgeous dark tresses and tug and pull and caress. He lets out a grunt of approval and lifts you by the waist so he can reach the clasp of your bra. It only takes him a second to get it off of you and he immediately starts a migration from the corner of your lips down to your chest. Your hands are still in his hair but you really miss the sweet taste of his lips and you’re slightly annoyed at the loss, so you lift your hips up and press it against his growing erection and he moans against your skin. It takes some effort, but you persuade him to let you switch places again because it gives him the perfect opportunity to hook his index fingers on your underwear and slide it down your legs, and you tug at his own undergarment just in time to get it out of the way before your hips are hovering over his and he’s looking up at you like he could devour you.

It’s safe to say the feeling is mutual.

You rip the condom that’s been resting in your hand open with your mouth, and he gasps when you slide it down his length and wrap your hand on the base of him to line him up against your center. You don’t give him any time to recover before you slide down on him. Your back arches because he gets so far deep into you and it’s too much, and it’s really all you can do to keep quiet because you’re a tease and refuse to let him hear how good he’s making you feel. The burn that you feel as you roughly lift yourself from him and slam back down is too enjoyable, as is the way his breath is ghosting over your chest, quickening and deepening and making you grin as your hands now find purchase on his shoulders. You decide then that he’s been too quiet, and pick up your pace just as you lean down so that you can kiss the shell of his ear.

“That feel good?”

It’s just too gratifying to watch Kibum fall apart under you. So gratifying that you can only chuckle when he lets out the most delicious moan you’ve ever heard and grabs you by the hips, helping you move above him and bucking his own hips to meet you each and every single time because fuck yes that feels good. He tells you as much, too, in the way he pants right in your ear and brushes his lips against it even when you try to move away, so you can feel and hear every moan and every sharp intake of breath because he knows how sensitive your ears are to the sounds of pure pleasure. You retaliate by biting lovemarks into his neck and he hardens inside you just as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to wind tighter and tighter, and god it’s hard to believe that even in this respect you’re completely in sync, but it’s perfect. You’re perfect with your hair perfectly dishevelled and your lipstick smudged over your face and his face, too, and he’s really not sure how but your eye makeup has managed to survive his hungry hands but he’s too glad because he loves how the silvers and blacks make your already intense gaze so much more delicious and he should really hold back if he wants you to look presentable in the next couple of days but he really wants to bite your neck and your collarbones and every inch of skin in his line of sight because you’re just delectable. He settles for digging his fingers deeper into the skin of your hips instead, bringing you down on him a bit more roughly, and it earns him a scream from you.

You’re seeing white because once he clutches onto your skin he refuses to let up his deadly pace, and you’re trying really hard to think of a way to get back at him but you’re too consumed by pleasure to act on any of the devious thoughts crossing your mind (though you know that you’ll get to them all, eventually). You’re too distracted to feel Kibum’s head move around your chest until the whimper that rips from your throat informs you that he’s assaulting one of your breasts with his mouth while pinching at the other with the cheeky fervor that always overpowers his actions in and outside the bedroom.  You grab a fistful of his hair and give a hard pull so that his mouth separates from your skin, and the audible pop that comes with it is obscene and makes you crumble just a little bit more and you forget yourself. Kibum doesn’t, and makes a point to lift your hips and slam them back down just then, thinking that it’s maybe time that he takes control and makes you fall apart.

It doesn’t take much. Kibum has memorised every inch of your skin, of your mind, of your dreams and thoughts and everything in between. He throws you onto your bed on your back and lifts one of your legs so he can place it over his shoulder and slides slickly back into your core, moaning into your skin because you fit so snugly around him and he smiles as he lifts his head to see your eyes roll to the back of your head when he rolls his hips a bit deeper into you and settles there for a bit longer than he should and you’re seeing stars. You flex your lower body because it’s all you can do to defend the endless string of curses leaving your mouth, but Kibum only grins and taps two of his fingers against your clit to elevate the curse words to whimpers and moans even when he can only barely deal with how tightly your walls are starting to clamp around him.

Your nameless-ship is mostly this, chasing and catching up and someone falling back before chasing again. It’s constantly getting one up on each other and making the other feel both completely satisfied yet thirsty for so much more. You wonder sometimes why it works so well, but you’ve never come even remotely close to a sensible answer.

Kibum starts to move faster yet again and you can’t believe he still has this much energy, but you can’t stop your hips from moving to meet him at every thrust until the waves of tightness start to wash over you. You hear his breath start to catch and his grunts growing more constant and you reach out to hold his hand and he answers immediately, holding you nice and tight as you both lose yourselves to each other. When the climax finally comes you arch your back and move as close to him as you can, and he lets out a moan of your name that makes your whole body weak before you can no longer hold yourself together and dissolve into a mess of needy whimpers of his own name.

When he’s completely drained and completely satisfied, Kibum falls next to you with a tiny whoosh, and you turn to look at him with a smirk. He chuckles and wraps his arms around you to pull you against him, and he couldn’t give a fuck about the thin layer of sweat covering both of your bodies so long as he can still inhale the scent of your skin.  You let your eyes flutter closed and revel in his warmth, ready to let yourself give in to sleep any moment now. Kibum throws a leg over both of yours in an attempt at comedy and you only nuzzle closer against him after letting out a chuckle.

The peace only lasts for about ten minutes.

Kibum calls your name and you answer with a reluctant hum, your nose digging into the crook of his neck. 

“I’m hungry.”

When you open your eyes he’s pouting at you, and he looks so ridiculously cute you want to throw something at him because the only thing you want to do right now is sleep, but you don’t want to admit that it’s because he’s rendered every single one of your limbs useless, so you only heave a sigh before he gets out of bed and starts to shuffle his clothes back on (and you only now realise you never took that shirt off of him, it kind of annoys you). He throws a long tank top at you and you shimmy into it with some effort, begrudgingly leaving your bed after throwing it over your head.

“Why can’t we just cuddle like normal people? Why do you have to interrupt my bliss?” you ask him as he moves toward your door, and you wrap your arms around him and press your chest against his back like he’s an anchor of some sort. 

“I’m really hungry,” he coos in a tone that’s more fitting of a five year old and it makes your knees wobbly.

Why must he use the cute voice against you? It’s not like you weren’t going to give in eventually. You let him steer you towards the kitchen and wonder what the hell you’re both cooking at this hour.

“What time even is it?”

You both look to the microwave sitting atop the corner counter and discover that it’s 5:46AM. 

“Oh, great. Early breakfast time?” you look to Kibum with a smile, and he mirrors it before pulling out eggs, bread and butter from the fridge. 

“I’ll take the eggs, you do the toast,” Kibum calls out in a tone that is both commanding and sweet, and you’re too glad that you have less challenging tasks to do because your muscles really are quite sore. You hop up on the counter and watch as Key whisks a couple of eggs in a bowl, adds salt and pepper and a little bit of shredded cheese (he sneaks a hint of garlic powder when you’re not looking) and pours it all on a saucer. 

A delicious smell overpowers the small apartment instantly, and Kibum gives you a pointed look to remind you of your duties. You decide that you’re feeling especially lazy, so you only grab a baking tray, smother butter onto six pieces of toast and stick them in the oven.

Kibum only laughs at you and shifts the fire from medium to low before starting to scramble the eggs.

It’s a few minutes later when you’re sitting on your couch, eggs and bread set on a tray on your coffee table and TV currently loading Netflix. You could have sat at your dining table like civilised people, but you had this really nasty need to watch Aladdin and Kibum can never force himself to say no to you when you’re still basking in the afterglow of pleasure. So here you are, munching on egg sandwiches and drinking orange juice, making a total mess of yourself because you’re still kind of drunk and you’ve always been clumsy, but he can only smile at your helpless cuteness and hope that it doesn’t kill him one day.

When you’re both done, you move to set the plates on the sink, just as Kibum gets up to fetch something from your bathroom. When he comes back holding makeup remover wipes you burst out laughing, sure that you must look like a clown right now. But his hands are gentle as they move around your face till it’s pristinely clean, and you grab a tissue of your own because he still has your red lipstick smudged here and there.

“Taemin asked me if I wanted to come in and interview to work at Eros,” he says once he’s done and your face is flawlessly clean.

“Hm, that sounds like fun,” you respond, an amused smile taking over your face, “would you want to?”

Kibum considers your words for a moment. It’s always sounded like fun to man a bar and mix drinks and enjoy good music. He even feels a bit enticed by the downsides, the shitty hours and the permanent near-deafness.

“Maybe.”

“When’s the interview?”

“Tomorrow at 6PM. Come with me?”

You clear off the last bit of red on his face and can’t help but smile and press a kiss to his cheek.

 “Of course,” you respond, and settle your head on his shoulder just as he cuddles closer to you. You don’t give much thought to the fact that it’s kind of a late time to set up an informational interview, but you’re glad for Kibum. He’s been working temp jobs mostly, and he’s not the kind of man to enjoy temporary anythings, he likes balance and serenity and peace.

“Aladdin?” your eyes perk up at him for just a moment, and he kisses your forehead as he presses play on the film.

It’s not even the end of the opening song and you’ve already dozed off on his shoulder, and he can only bring himself to cuddle you closer before he, too, lets himself give in to the drowsiness clouding his eyes.

“I love you.”

The words slip off his mouth before he can stop them, but he knows you can’t hear them and for some reason it makes him smile before he settles his head over yours and tightens his arms around you.

Maybe one day he’ll tell you for real, and maybe that day you’ll say it back. 


	4. Part 4

Waking up has always been your least favorite part of the entire day. Your bedroom is really, really warm, and you catch yourself wanting to kick the thick duvet off of your body when you remember that there is an adorable fox-eyed boy out cold next to you. After managing to stifle giggles, you settle for staring at Kibum until he can feel it and wakes up himself. He really does look cute, lying on his side with one of his arms under the pillow and the other extended in your direction, his eyebrows slightly furrowed and his bow-shaped lips pursed. You wonder what in the world he has to be grumpy about that it seeps into his subconscious as you move your hand to his hair, playing with the dark tresses as delicately as you can, and his whole face relaxes into the most angelical look you’ve ever seen.

You almost pull out your phone and take a picture of him, but you don’t, because a second later you realize that you had actually fallen asleep in the living room. Did he carry you back to bed? Did you say any embarrassing sleepy-drunk nonsense?

He probably doesn’t remember, either.

Kibum groans a second later, furrowed eyebrows and pouty lips back in full force, only this time he extends his arm further into the bed until he can grab onto your waist. He starts to pull you towards him and you chuckle until your head is firmly pressed against his chest and his face is buried on your shoulder. 

“What time is it?” you can only barely make out his words and it makes you laugh a bit harder. You grab his phone from the bedside table (it’s really the only thing you can reach in this position) and gasp when the screen lights up. 

“It’s 4:30PM,” you declare in an alarmed tone, and Kibum groans again. You sit up, breaking up the embrace you had both been sharing, and Kibum sits up right after you, his eyes still closed.

When he opens his eyes he bursts out laughing. “Oh, God, your neck,” he bites his lower lip and runs his hand on the bridge of it affectionately, and you close your eyes and sigh because this is certainly not the first time you’ve woken up to these words. “I’m so sorry,” he laughs a bit harder and his grin widens before you stand up and walk towards your bathroom. The second you look in the mirror you sigh again because, once again, Kibum has marked at least 30% of  your neck as his property.

And you know he’s not sorry at all.

* * *

Eros looks quite different bathed in the last vestiges of daylight. It’s surprisingly clean, and doesn’t really smell like alcohol and tobacco and sin. It actually kind of smells like pine. And maybe a little bit of lemongrass. It’s fascinating.

This is the first time you’ve seen the entire staff not in strobe lighting, too. Taemin is ten times as handsome, and knows it all too well. He smirks at you when he sees you walk in, and you don’t try to divert your curious eyes from his. You never noticed just how broad Taemin is, he looks much older in regular lighting.

“I never thought you’d be the clingy kind of girlfriend,” he quips as you take a seat in front of the bar, his bright blue eyes dancing at yours. He’s in a familiar position, organising liquor bottles and wiping down champagne flutes.

“Correction, I’m his ride. And moral support. Not that it’s any of your business,” you snap back at him, and his smile widens.

“Are you sure? I can see the hickeys on your neck.”

Cheeky little shit. You wonder why he doesn’t get along with Kibum.

“I’m glad he came,” he says in a more somber tone as he picks up a new rocks glass to wipe clean, “we could use the help.” You wonder for a moment who else works at the place, because there are at least half a dozen people walking around the establishment that you’ve never seen before.

You turn to Taemin to ask about just that when Kibum steps into the room. He’d been in the bathroom doing some breathing exercises and final grooming, you imagine, and his eyes dart nervously around the room in search for a comfortable place to lock onto. You expect him to find yours and smile, but for the first time in all your months of knowing him, he locks eyes on someone else and beams.

“Kibum? Kim Kibum?”

You follow Key’s eyes to find that the overexcited voice belongs to—you’re not even surprised—yet another extremely handsome man. He’s shorter than Kibum, but he’s all angles. Sharp jaw and sharp eyes and cheekbones that could cut. His shoulders are very broad and extremely fit, and you can see the clear mark of perfectly sculpted pecs through his black cotton v-neck. You can’t say for sure that he’s not hiding a brilliant six pack under that shirt, but you’re certain whatever’s under there has to be fantastic.

“Stop drooling,” Taemin snaps resentfully, and your gawking settles into a smirk. You don’t merit his remark with an answer, your mind far too immersed in the altercation about to take place.

“Kim Jonghyun, you punk!” Kibum half jogs in the direction of the steamy man, and just then you become distracted by how gorgeously golden yet fair his skin is. It’s almost like it falters between shades of light copper. But then Kibum pulls him by the shoulders for a quick hug, and accidentally lifts the back of the shorter man’s shirt a fraction.

Hm. No ass. At all.

Somehow it doesn’t put you off.

Their excited squealing becomes regular conversation soon enough, and you stare holes into the side of Kibum’s head to let him know that your curiosity is starting to get the better of you. Naturally, he gets the signal almost too quickly, and extends an arm out to you while still facing the prince meets motorcycle badass meets rockstar looking man. 

“Come here, I want to introduce you. This is Kim Jonghyun, a bastard I went to school with ten billion years ago,” Key starts as you walk towards him and take his hand, smiling at Jonghyun and immediately meeting his eyes. 

“Hey, this bastard is still older than you, show some respect! Oh, hi there. Just call me Jonghyun.”

He has strange eyes. They’re a very deep, very dark shade of blue. The kind of blue that you see in the ocean after sundown. You’re not sure why but it’s like you can see waves crashing in his irises. For a second you wonder if he’s wearing circle lenses (which you and Kibum are very guilty of wearing on occasion), but you discard the possibility after a second, better look.

It radiates with serenity, yet holds traces of calamity as well. It’s captivating.

You take his extended hand, and take a step closer to him to give it a firm shake. You can’t help but smile at him, because he looks softer up close. He’s no less menacing, but there is something almost endearing about him… he looks more like a feisty puppy. Him and Kibum’s conversation progresses, and you do very little besides nod and laugh on cue because you’ve always been fascinated to hear people talk about Kibum.

“What the hell are you doing here, anyway? Don’t tell me—  ”

“I’m the DJ!”

Of course he is.

“Of course you are!” Kibum mirrors your thoughts and laughs loudly, clapping Jonghyun on the back. 

“I kept wanting to say hey whenever I saw you here, but the two of you are always disappearing and reappearing around the club so I never got the chance,” the shorter man goes on, and you both stifle chuckles because he’s not wrong at all. “Have you met the big boss yet? He’s supposed to be here already, isn’t your interview in—  ”

“I’m here.”

The three of you turn around to find that the big boss is actually the handsome devil from last night, and he still looks damn good in this lighting. He’s wearing a dark burgundy ensemble that you’re pretty sure would not look as good as it does on him on any other soul, and his hair is parted to one side. Some of his fringe covers his forehead and you let out a small smile because if it wasn’t for the deadpan expression on his chiseled face he’d actually look adorable. “I apologize for keeping you.”

He approaches you with cold eyes, but his words are warm. “Nice to see you both again. I’m sorry I couldn’t introduce myself properly last night. I’m the owner, Onew,” he says courteously, even bows his head slightly to the both of you. Kibum nods back and returns the sentiment before introducing both of you. There’s something knowing in his eye when Key says your name (maybe because he doesn’t attach anything to it, not friend, not girlfriend, not even roommate), and you wonder if he was one of the many spectators to your blatant PDA last night. He’s still scrutinizing you, though much more discreetly, as Jonghyun talks about Key’s great attributes (“He’s surprisingly patient, though he may not look it, and he learns fast, and he’s a people person. Kim Kibum will charm the pants off of anyone in under five minutes.”), and his eyes linger on the bridge of your neck and you could swear you saw one of the corners of his mouth twitch.

He’s oddly charming. And very attractive.

“Shall we, then?” he rejoins, and looks around as he gestures toward his office upstairs. You see him lock eyes with another staff member, one you’ve also never seen up close before (though his build is quite familiar), and gives a curt nod. It must be a signal of some sort because the baby-faced man immediately straightens up and nods right back.

These people are all awfully mysterious for their lines of work.

Kibum turns to you just as Jonghyun and Onew turn around to walk to the staircase, and you give his hand a supportive squeeze. “Good luck,” you add, and he gives you a small smile. His grip loosens and so does yours, and you retreat to the bar, where Taemin is still cleaning glasses, as he goes up to the upper level.

You take a seat on a bar stool a few moments later, and Taemin shoots you a smirk. “That was a hell of a lot more than moral support.”

You respond with a smirk yourself. “Please don’t start.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they all walk out, and Kibum’s face is glowing. “Ah, he got hired on the spot, didn’t he?” Taemin chuckles from behind a rocks glass, and you stand from the stool and start to walk in his direction. His eyes are wide and he’s biting back a smile but you know he’s ecstatic, so you snake an arm through his till your fingers are intertwining with his own, and he lets out the softest squeal.

“Congratulations,” a third party says, offering Kibum a hand to shake. His eyes catch yours then, and you offer a small nod of acknowledgement at his timid gaze. You offer him your name and a hand, and he actually blushes.

Cute.

“I’m Minho, one of the managers,” his voice is a deep but dulcet bass, and it’s enchanting. They’re all enchanting, and it’s slightly infuriating. Kibum will fit here just nicely.  

“Well then, don’t let us keep you from your Sunday. I’ll see you tomorrow night for the staff meeting, Kibum?” Onew says with a tone of finality, and both Jonghyun and Minho are moving to stand behind him as if to make a clear divide between you and them. Kibum nods and gives them a bow before taking your hand to lead you outside, but not before you’ve given your own farewells.

“It was like they planned to hire me from the start,” Kibum shares as you walk out of the place, and he’s swinging your joined hands excitedly, “I’m so glad that I came.”

You turn to him and look him straight in the eyes as he babbles nonstop about what had been discussed during his interview, which apparently only consisted of five minutes of actual interviewing before he was hired, and you realize you’ve missed the sparkle in Kibum’s eyes. It’s different from the one you saw most of last night, this is his ambition, his drive to conquer new territory. You have a feeling this could be great.

You just know he will absolutely kill it.

Or himself.

* * *

It’s been two weeks and Kibum is more zombie than man. It’s Wednesday, his only day off, and he’s sitting in front of the TV in a position that looks too stiff to be comfortable. There’s a full plate of food in front of him, and he doesn’t look like he’s eaten or even had a glass of water all day.

“Hey,” you greet as you shut the front door behind you, taking off your jacket and putting down your purse in the first flat surface in sight. “I’m so tired I think I might pass out right now. What did you do all day?”

He turns his head too slowly, and when you catch his eyes, they look dull. The last time you saw them like this was when you both took MDMA by mistake on your second outing together.

He doesn’t react to your furrowed eyebrows, or to how quickly you make it to his side to touch his cheek as lightly as you can.

This is not your Kibum.

“I just sat still.”

This isn’t like him. Kibum needs the day, he needs to get up and out of the apartment to at least get some coffee (because he’d jump off of a window before brewing a cup himself), this isn’t like him and you’re very concerned.

But he charms you into forgetting, obeys when you tell him to eat and drink lots of water and smiles when he shows you a clean plate and an empty glass. He even goes as far as tucking you into bed after you’ve had a bite yourself, kisses your forehead goodnight and all.

“I miss you.”

You smile, eyes shut, and reach out for his hand. “I’m right here, dummy.”

If you hadn’t been so tired, you’d have noticed the sad smile he gave you, you’d have heard him repeat the words one more time before leaving.

The following Wednesday you’re the one who can’t touch dinner, even though Kibum made it. It smells delicious, freshly made pasta alla primavera and Kibum’s favourite white wine to go with it. Yet your eyes remain on the raven-haired boy, how he uses dessert as an excuse to stay in the kitchen, to avoid your eyes for as long as possible, and he doesn’t know why he’s doing it. He looks worse, he looks paler, he’s not chipper, and you’re not happy in the slightest.

“Is it that rough?”

Kibum doesn’t answer immediately, he moves toward you slowly and sighs before pouring some more wine on your glass. “It’s like any other job, there’s good nights and there’s bad ones. I’m just trying to adjust to being nocturnal, it’s okay.”

You pout, and he scowls. He hates it when you try to appeal to him with pity.

“Do you hate it there? You have to quit, you can’t just let this consume you like this,” you argue, and your voice is rougher than you intended it to be, but even then he doesn’t react. 

“For the last time, it’s not the job,” he retorts in a complete monotone, and he walks away when you press the subject. 

“Then what is it?!” you follow after him but he doesn’t seem fazed, and you continue to ask him please tell you what’s wrong (and you rarely plead, but Kibum is not who you want to show your pompous side to and he never has been) until he shuts his bedroom door in your face.

He feels like shit. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with Eros, it’s just like any other night job out there. He mixes good drinks, and he’s constantly praised, and he brings excellent suggestions at staff meetings, in fact, he’s already lined up to be Minho’s apprentice.  

It’s everything else that’s wrong. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, everything feels wrong. Food tastes like sand, everything tastes like sand, really, and he hasn’t told you but he’s been chain smoking again, and he’s been taking more vodka shots than hazelnut ones, and he’s just so anxious, all the time.

He has had a nasty feeling brewing inside him for a few days, and it’s driving him mad.

He can hear your muffled pleading to let you in, to talk to you, and he stands on the other side of the door nearly heartbroken.

As much as he hates making you worry, he knows this will blow over. It’ll get better for sure, there’s no way it wouldn’t. Kim Kibum can survive anything, and he knows he can, he just has to endure it a bit more.

“I’ll be okay,” he tells you without opening the door, and he rests a palm against the cool wood, “I just need to sleep.”

You’re sitting outside the door when he tries to leave his room to stretch his legs an hour later, and you’re sound asleep with your knees tucked into your chest and your face burrowed into your elbow. 

“Idiot,” he shakes his head, bending down to carry you in his arms, and you only grunt minimally as he walks you back to your room. 

“I hate it when you’re not happy,” you mumble, and despite the grogginess in your voice, you sound legitimately angry. “Tell me who it was, I’ll punch them for sure. I’ll punch them in the dick if they have one, and if they don’t, I’ll punch them in the metaphorical dick.”

He laughs, and it’s enough to give you some peace of mind.

Kibum is up the next morning as you’re getting ready for work, and you’re happy to see that he’s at least sipping coffee when he hands you some breakfast. He sits on your bed as you get dressed and gather your things, watching you with a careful smile when he thinks you’re not looking.

Either he’s actually feeling better, or he feels guilty about yesterday.

“Okay,” you sigh when you catch sight of the time. You were supposed to be gone ten minutes ago, “I’m off. Still mad at you and at your job, but I’m glad to see you smile a bit.” You bend before him and plant a kiss to his forehead, “So I’m coming to the club to give you grief tonight.”

He’s very happy to hear that, the smile he responds with tells you as much.

“I’d better get free drinks.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” he smirks, and already he’s more like the Kibum you know and love. “But you can try your best.”

“I know all of your weaknesses, Kim Kibum,” you hover over him and let his fingers dance on your skirt, and the simper on his face makes you feel ten times better about your morning. 

“I’m not going to just give out free drinks, little duck,” your eyes widen because he hasn’t called you that in weeks, but he doesn’t miss a beat, “you’ll have to persuade me, somehow.”

His hands circle around your hips and he makes you sit on his lap, and this is the most contact you’ve held in three weeks so you’re pleased and a little nervous. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” you tease, and he chuckles because he knows you always do, and when he sends you off a few minutes later, he looks content. Not happy, just content, and you can’t ask for more than that just yet.

* * *

Work is a mess of delayed meetings and a very rushed lunch, so it’s only natural that you’re light-headed halfway through the first dirty martini Kibum serves you at Eros. The night is busy since college has restarted, and Kibum looks the complete opposite of what he looks like at home. He and Taemin have amazing chemistry, and they bounce off of each other and handle three orders at a time with absolute expertise.

“Did you get a bartending license at some point?” you ask because there’s no way Kibum just knows to throw cocktail shakers in the air or make flambé shots, and he smirks and gives you a shrug.

“I was bored one summer.”

“How come you never told me?”

“I have to keep you guessing, little duck,” he winks and floats away to attend to a different customer, and only returns to hand you a bill. You shoot daggers at him and he smirks some more, but you slide your credit card in his direction anyway and even leave a hefty tip for his services. You’re gone by the time he turns around to retrieve your receipt, and he looks around for you as he hands it to Taemin, whose eyes are following you as you slither your way to the thick of the dance floor.

The club feels different tonight. You find yourself paying more attention to Jonghyun as he dances behind the audio mixers than you are to the intoxicated people around you, you find that the air is colder on your skin, that your eyes are constantly swiping past the upper level in search of the man who could be behind all of Kibum’s pain. You only see Minho, and he’s got his arms crossed over his chest, his expression calculatedly deadpan.

Where is the blond bombshell tonight?

You guess he’s upstairs, and you find you have the perfect excuse to get up there. You look back at the bar as you make it up to the mezzanine, and you find Kibum and Taemin’s eyes following you curiously. You ignore their gazes, and instead meet Jonghyun’s as soon as he catches you from inside his glass chamber. He beams, obviously elated to see Kibum’s girl near the DJ booth.

“Song request?”

His voice is really nice to listen to, even when he’s half screaming. You shake your head no, and he smiles a little brighter, because this means you want to come into his lair. Minho’s eyes swipe past you, and he watches as Jonghyun lets you inside without much of a reaction. Because all the subwoofers, speakers and amps are pointed away from the booth, it’s a lot quieter here.

“Well, well, what brings you to my side of the mountain?” he makes ample space for you to survey the soundboards and his laptop, and he doesn’t even question when you start to browse through his Pro Tools.

“Curiosity.”

He likes you more every second, and he’s almost jealous that Kibum gets to have you all to himself. At least for most nights, anyway.

“I’m also really worried about Key.”

Of course you are.

He doesn’t mind that you’re not looking him in the eyes, instead browsing around his equipment to make this look like a leisurely chat.

“Is he taking it really hard?”

You look to the downstairs bar pensively, and smile when you catch Key juggling shot glasses in the air before he lines up and fills five of them with the kind of stuff you wish you were drinking.

“He just hasn’t… been himself lately. So, can you tell me who I have to punch in the face?”

Jonghyun chuckles, because he wishes he had a name to give you. He’s noticed too, how Kibum is paler every day like he’s contracted a deadly disease. But he can’t tell you what you want to hear, so he gives you a comforting smile and goes about his set as usual.

He hears you sigh and it’s kind of heartbreaking, because it must be frustrating when no one tells you anything. To be fair, this is way out of his jurisdiction.

“What about that super hot boss of yours?”

“Super hot?”

You shoot him a pointed look, as if questioning if he actually didn’t think that Onew was incredibly attractive, and he shrugs.

“He’s not really around on busy nights. Not a fan of the ruckus, despite his line of work,” Jonghyun says honestly, but that’s not the kind of answer you’re looking for.

Your eyes go back to the bar, where Kibum is now laughing his fake laugh along with the people sat on his section, and you feel even less chipper. And Jonghyun notices.

“I’d love to tell you not to worry, but it’s hard when he has this kind of job,” he starts somberly, and you smile because the tone of his voice doesn’t match the acidy beat he’s currently winding. You think he’d look better with a drink on his dashboard and a cigarette in his hand, but both are absent. “All I can say is that he’s doing pretty damn great, so if he’s struggling, it doesn’t show. I can keep an eye on him for you, if you want.”

You smile, genuinely, but you don’t trust his words all that much. It’s his eyes, the blue in them is really compelling and it gives you so much security that it makes you doubtful. “That’d give me a little peace of mind, actually.”

“Trust me.”

But you don’t think you can.

As you exit the DJ booth, you think you feel worse than you did before you walked into this club. You’re suddenly really angry at Kibum, really angry at his secretive way of dealing with hardships, at the fact that he doesn’t trust you with what’s in his head. And he knows you hate that, he knows you always try to be honest with him so he’ll always be honest with you and you hate to think that he’s keeping things from you, things that could be hurting him, things you could help with—  

This is the fucking icing on the cake. 

You’re not a jealous person. You’ve never been jealous of other people touching Kibum, talking to him, but something about the way the girl sitting across from him on the bar top is looking at him is making you  _sizzle_. At first you don’t do anything, you just freeze five feet from the bar and watch as she curls nimble fingers under Kibum’s chin, how he smiles politely and almost angelically because his job requires him to look like he doesn’t mind.

He’s your best friend, sometimes he’s your lover but he’s your best friend and maybe this is what he wants, you’re outright chanting in your head but you don’t believe a single thing you’re thinking, and eventually all words turn into  _mine, mine, mine_ —  

 _Kibum is mine_.

Toxic, this is so toxic and you have to get out of here, you have to do something because this isn’t you, this isn’t normal and there must have been something in the drink you had or something in the smoke machines they have in here, and then you spot Taemin and he reads your eyes and he actually looks concerned.

So you make a beeline in his direction, glad he’s not being assaulted by anyone, and hold up a hand. “Tequila,” and you put up three fingers, and Taemin grins, throwing the shot glasses on the bar top instantly after. You don’t wait too long after he’s poured them to gulp them down, one after the other because you want to get really drunk really fast, and it does nothing but feed your anger.

In a nice way, though, because you’re sure the look on your pretty face combined with the rage in your eyes must make your tiny dress and your red lips quite a sight.

When you’ve slammed the third shot back onto the bar, Kibum spares a look in your direction, and it takes absolutely no time for him to realise you’re either really pissed or really bored. But he turns back to his customers, and your blood boils. You even crack your neck, and Taemin bites on his lower lip to hide a smile.

“It’s part of the job,” he yells in your direction a moment later, “don’t hold it against him.”

You find it hard not to, and the way you only cock an eyebrow at his words tells him as much. “Besides, you said you’re not exclusive.”

Somehow, the bite in his words makes you laugh. “You sure love to bring that up,” you add, moving to stand closer to the bar to rest your elbows on it. “What do you want from me?”

“Something Kibum will kick my ass for, darling,” he’s so honest and you think you love it, “so you’ll probably never know.”

Now you really want to know. “Why does everything I do have to tie back to him?”

Taemin simpers and pours you another shot, he kind of loves you when you’re tipsy. “Because he loves you. And you love him.”

“Love can be a lot of things, I think,” you respond instantly, because you know Kibum loves you. And you know you love him. You’re whimsical lovers, the kind you’ve only ever found in literary tragedies because it’s a time bomb that’ll burn through it all when it finally explodes. “And it has a nasty tendency to change.”

You tap on the bar top so Taemin pours you another shot, and he doesn’t say a word as he moves to prepare it. Bottom’s up and your throat and lungs are on fire and you’re grabbing at your clutch because you really want a cigarette right now, and maybe then you’ll just leave.

“How much?” you yell at Taemin, and he beckons you to come closer with a wave of his hand. And you do, you lean over the bar and rest your elbows on the cool tile. You’re laughing the second you see him rest his hands on his own side of the bar to meet you, and you just might be that drunk but your cheeks feel really hot when the tip of his nose brushes against your own.

“Don’t move, he’s looking straight at us,” he mouths, and he smells like peaches and vodka and it is divine. But you move anyway, smiling before you press a near chaste kiss against his mouth because you see Kibum’s fiery eyes from the corner of your own. But then you’re totally distracted, because Taemin’s lips are pillowy and soft and you think you’re not so angry anymore.

So you lean back and check your clutch to make sure you have all your stuff, and you leave Taemin with a wink and a wave before you’re off to the club’s balcony.

Fresh air is great on your drunken limbs, it was starting to get way too hot inside the club. And it wasn’t just your anger, or whatever fire it was that Taemin sprang to life from within you just a few minutes ago. So you quickly find a cool corner to stand on and a cooler wall to lean on, and you’re pulling out your single emergency cigarette and placing it against your lips.

But you can’t even light up in peace tonight, it seems.

“Did you see her? Classic slut move,” you’d recognize the ghastly outfit from miles away, it’s the girl with the slippery fingers from downstairs. “Real women don’t sell their bodies for a few drinks.”

 _Holy fuck,_ you’re not even going to address that, so you try to focus back on lighting up while quietly telling yourself that women can do whatever the fuck they want with their bodies, their wallets and their fucking lives.  _Deep breaths_ , you tell yourself,  _deep breaths_ —  

“That bartender, though! We almost had him, it was so close,” her voice is squeaky as fuck and it’s really annoying, “I’m going to hate myself if I don’t get to at least blow him by the end of the night.”

You can’t help laughing, and it sounds a lot more condescending than you intend it to be after you catch yourself, which makes you laugh even harder.

“What’s so funny, bitch?” it’s not the same girl but they’re onto you and you don’t care, lifting your cigarette to your lips before taking a long drag.

“You are,” you answer simply, shrugging before you release the cloud of smoke inside you. “I’m a little drunk and can’t find it in me to be polite about your idiocy.”

“Look at that!” it’s the annoying one now. “An eloquent skank!”

You laugh harder because it’s pathetic, everything about tonight is pathetic and you wish you’d asked Taemin for just one more shot, maybe another kiss, too.

“Do you even know who I am, bitch?” they’re all coming closer and you can’t stop laughing, and you’re thinking again that there’s gotta be something in the air around here that’s making you more shameless than you’ve ever been. “Do you?”

“I don’t care,” your smile is miles wide and you take another drag of your cigarette, “but I’m pretty sure you’re about to tell me!”

“Insolent whore!” she throws something at you but it’s way off the mark and you’re doubling over in hysterics. “Come here, you little— !”

She’s holding both of your arms, clutching on them with nails that are starting to sink deep into your skin but you’re laughing, and you think she forgot you were smoking so you wait for the moment the back of her arm is within reach to just press the tip of your cigarette against her skin and you hear the hiss of fire against her body—  

And then something bites at the inside of your wrist.

“Whoa,” you say, still drunk and still smiling, “what the fuck was that?” you suddenly feel more things, tingling inside your body and you feel just a little dizzy. You think you hear the annoying girl’s name out of her friends’ mouths, and she’s being hurried away among harsh whispers of  _it came out, it really came out, we have to go!_

The tingling is turning into pain, your legs feel numb and so does the rest of your body, and you’re slumping against the wall behind you and your eyes are too heavy to keep open and maybe you shouldn’t have drunk so much and what was that thing that bit you?

You look at the inside of your wrists and there are four gaping black holes staring at you, darkening every vein in your arm and making you feel like you’re in some kind of teen horror movie. It looks like… it looks like a snakebite… whoa, you’re really sleepy, it’s time to sleep…

 _Sleep_ …

“No, no, no!” hey, you know that voice, it’s a good one, “stay with me!” they’re calling out your name and you think you can open your eyes a little bit and you giggle because it’s the blonde bombshell and he looks really sad. You want to ask him why, why he’s holding your face like you’re dying, why he even cares.

“What are you?” you manage to ask him, but he ignores you, and he holds up your arm to his lips and you think he’s going to kiss the wounds, and actually you think it’d be really cute if he did, hah. He doesn’t though, because that’s not how it works, he definitely will just clean it up with his shirt or something—  

And then you feel more pain, sharper than the one from the first bite, and you feel draining, draining; you can’t open your eyes to make sure but it feels like your whole body is getting sucked out of its own skin and it hurts so much, so much.

It feels really good. It feels  _so_  good and you’re starting to feel less heavy, your free hand is going around to touch the blonde bombshell, it rests at the back of his neck and you even pull his hair for a second. Onew, you remember his name is Onew but it doesn’t fit him at all, and you hear a giggle slip from your lips because you feel only bliss and peace now, no more pain.

“Who are you?” you’re fluttering your eyes open again, and he finally raises his head to look at you and he licks his pretty lips and he looks so damn beautiful that you can’t help but repeat the question, this time with a smile.

“You can’t know yet,” he cups your cheek and kisses your forehead. “Rest, now.”

And you do.


End file.
